CHAPTER 26

GVIF Rheeavher

Ceryorka System, Cavaglatar Sector

Date: Zeran 23, Year 4731

Nelve left the docking bay of the Rheeavher, her pace almost a march as she moved through its corridors. Passing a console, a surge of anger gripped her—a sharp urge to unsheathe her KelKor Blade and drive it into the screen, to release a primal scream.

The thought didn’t stop there. She imagined herself destroying everything and everyone in sight, letting her frustration consume her.

The screen reflected her raw anger, the sight jolting her out of her rage. Her breathing slowed as she wrestled with the fury threatening to overtake her, forcing it back into submission. Anger was a powerful force, but true strength lay in leashing it. She had worked too hard to project unbreakable discipline to let it falter now.

Her new affiliation with the Brotherhood of Velor left her questioning herself. What had it made her? Did her actions bring honor—honor to what? The Empire? Or did they merely tarnish her name? Did the group truly act as they claimed, serving the Empire’s interests, or were their intentions self-serving? She hoped to uncover their true nature and decide for herself where their values lay once they returned to the Vorcon Empire.

The Brotherhood claimed to act for the betterment—the greater good—of the Vorcon Empire. Yet nothing she had done so far felt honorable. Nothing had felt as though it truly contributed to the greater good of the Empire.

She couldn’t let Caul see how deeply he affected her. That was a vulnerability she wouldn’t allow him to exploit—or anyone else.

Still, the events within the asteroid field clung to her mind, refusing to fade.

Caul had designed her trial to push her to the very brink of death, sending her into the asteroid field and forcing her to confront it on his terms. Destroying the pirates themselves would prove nothing, achieve nothing, and teach nothing but a false sense of accomplishment.

She had succeeded—she had done exactly what Caul had asked of her and experienced it precisely as he had designed. She had learned the lesson he wanted her to learn, in the way he wanted her to learn it. Yet the realization brought her no comfort, no solace, no sense of progression—each lesson exposing weaknesses she hadn’t known existed.

In the end, the pirate forces were destroyed. She had watched helplessly, powerless to intervene. Her death could have come at any moment, one stray hit obliterating her craft. Her survival felt like a cruel toss of fate—perhaps the will of the gods, or worse, the calculated design of Caul Malocktus.

If Caul intended to rely on her for his ambitions and integrate her into the Brotherhood, he would ensure she was capable. She had to succeed. Her abilities and usefulness reflected not only on herself but also on Caul.

Failure meant death—a final, unmarked end in the annals of the Brotherhood.

For those who faltered, there were no second chances. They were discarded, forgotten. Their demise was marked as nothing more than an unfortunate consequence of their inadequacy.

In the texts Caul had shared with her, there were many lessons from the Brotherhood’s history. Whether they were factual or merely intended to teach a point was unclear, though they were lessons all the same. Masters of the Brotherhood put their apprentices through countless trials, apprentices with great promise often falling, unable to survive the challenges.

It seemed like such a waste of potential—so many apprentices placed into what felt like impossible scenarios.

It was not merely the Brotherhood’s way; it was the way of the Vorcon Empire. Mysterious deaths and quiet disappearances were an accepted part of life in the Prine Star System, home to the Vorcon Empire. Many found their names struck from records, their memories erased from existence. Their deeds, no matter how significant, became mere footnotes in whispered rumors—if those with power or influence deemed it necessary.

Such events were common, with rumors quickly snuffed out by the endless churn of scandals, intrigues, and ambitions that consumed the Vorcon populace. One had to be careful whom they made enemies of, how far they pushed their ambitions, and what power they sought to claim.

The Empire’s justice system was subjective and situational. Lords governed their territories—lands within the Empire—bound by the Emperor’s laws but granted significant autonomy in matters they deemed personally important. Justice was flexible—harsh when necessary, nonexistent when convenient.

Official investigations were rare. Personal retribution, however, was relentless, driven as much by emotion as by fact.

To wrong a family in the Vorcon Empire rarely drew the attention of the GVIF or local security forces; instead, it invited deeply personal vengeance from the aggrieved. Revenge was more than a tradition—it was ingrained in the culture, an unwritten law, a way of life.

Sometimes disputes were settled in justice halls, depending on the issue—but more often, they were resolved in the shadows, where blood, not verdicts, determined the outcome. While the Brotherhood of Velor lurked in these shadows, they were far from the only ones who operated beyond public view.

Families were torn apart, vendettas ending in quiet, calculated murders. Legacies were extinguished without ceremony, deaths erupting into blood feuds that stretched for years.

She had learned caution from these lessons. A single misstep, crossing the wrong person, could cost more than one’s life—it could extinguish an entire legacy or leave one constantly defending it.

When it came to the Imperial Family, the Kotoron family, the consequences were even graver. Any harm to the Imperial Family had long been established as a crime that went beyond death. An entire family could be eradicated—killed, vanished, and erased from history.

To wrong the Imperial Family in some cases meant extinction. This precedent was widely understood, though it was rarely invoked as few would dare such an audacious move.

The most well-known exception occurred with Velor, who killed the then-Emperor. Yet, rather than facing condemnation, Velor’s actions were celebrated as a necessary sacrifice that saved the Empire from ruin. For a brief time, it even became an annual celebration, hailed as an act that had saved the Empire from ruin.

The sentiment was clear: the Empire came first. It existed above any single Emperor. The title of Emperor was meant to serve the Empire, just as the Empire served its ruler—providing wars to lead, lands to conquer, and dominions to rule to keep the Vorcon Empire strong and dominant.

Over time, however, the celebration of Velor’s act was outlawed. His name became forbidden, unspoken. To worship him was to shame the Emperor.

And yet, the Brotherhood of Velor endured. Their loyalty was not to any individual ruler but to the Empire itself. Their allegiance was never to the throne but to what they believed would serve the Empire’s greater good.

Throughout their existence, there were times when they had nearly disappeared, their presence reduced to myth. Their numbers dwindled from hundreds to a handful, the result of a self-induced purge within their own order.

When the Brotherhood deemed an Emperor’s reign to be weakening the Empire, they acted. Sometimes only a few members were required to achieve their goals. They steered events to align with what they believed would please the forgotten god Velor and the other gods worshipped by the Vorcon Empire. Velor himself had done the same in life, guiding the Empire until his death and eventual rise to divinity.

Still, not all deaths in the Empire were veiled in shadow. Some were bold, public, and purposeful.

A fight between two Vorcons on the streets of Kor, for example, might escalate to a fatal conclusion. Such violence, once ended, was final. No courts intervened, no officers of law, no further judgments were passed. It simply ended, an unspoken understanding that honor had been settled.

This was the world Nelve navigated—a realm of unyielding power dynamics, quiet revenge, and ruthless trials.

Caul’s use for Nelve meant he would test her. He would push her limits.

If she failed, the consequences would be hers alone to bear.

But Nelve questioned whether the time for tests would ever end. How much more did she need to prove?

All she had endured and yet to endure was all for her family, at times, she wondered why she even cared about the Rellocha name.

Her life had been spent serving her family more than being part of it. Every achievement was another step toward restoring their diminished status, as she had been told.

Yet Nelve had never fully understood why her tahlor, her father, felt that way. They were still nobility, still held lands within the Vorcon Empire. Her tahlor served on the Emperor’s council. Their family was better off than many.

Much relies on you. He had often said.

It was a constant pressure. She was determined to serve him, to make him proud, to honor her family, to fulfill the purpose he had intended for her.

It had been his main topic of conversation for as long as she could remember—how their family had once held great influence. Influence that had been lost long before he became lord of their house.

Despite their improved wealth and military strength in recent years, they still struggled to earn the respect they once commanded within the Empire. Even her father’s seat on the Emperor’s council, a position of power and proximity to the throne, had not been enough to restore their standing in full in the minds of many.

She was part of some grand plan—her father’s vision for the family’s resurgence. A plan that involved the Malocktus family. Though whatever plans they had, she often wondered who would benefit the most?

Caul had other Inquisitors under his command and countless acquaintances, some he employed. She often wondered how she truly fit into his designs. How many apprentices does he have? How much control does he hold within the Brotherhood of Velor?

Her family’s expectations had placed her on a narrow path, one she could not waver from.

Yet she lacked guidance. Following orders—she could do that—but managing what came after current events left her uncertain.

If I could speak directly to the gods, would they guide me? Would they doom me? Would they mock me? Am I a fool to believe they would even acknowledge me?

Her feelings about Caul Malocktus shifted by the day, fluctuating between resentment and reluctant respect. But one thing never changed—her fear of him.

Caul had a way of peeling back her defenses, exposing vulnerabilities she hadn’t realized existed. It was his gift and her curse—a force that inspired both loyalty and fear. Under his gaze, Nelve felt both indispensable and disposable, a paradox she could not quite resolve.

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Caul’s faith in the gods transcended the hollow rituals practiced by most Vorcons. For many, faith had devolved into mere ceremonial tradition, empty and detached from genuine belief.

Still, to insult the gods was a grave offense, as was denying their existence entirely. Yet few truly honored them anymore—not devoutly. The reverence of old had diminished long ago, leaving behind gestures and empty rites. Their names were spoken out of habit, without belief, without thought, by most.

She couldn’t ignore the admiration she felt for Caul’s unwavering faith. There were moments when she envied his conviction, his unshakable belief in something greater. He made the gods feel like something she could reach out and touch.

Caul’s devotion was absolute. Faith so devout, she had learned, was dangerous—it made him dangerous.

The door to her quarters slid downward with a sharp whoosh as she stepped inside, locking it behind her.

The room was dark, save for a dim, faded light beside the bed.

Nelve closed her eyes for a moment, feeling relief to be in her quarters, away from prying eyes. Her breaths were shallow and uneven, haunted by the day’s images. Here, at least, she didn’t have to worry about how anyone might look upon her.

A faint prickle ran up the back of her neck, sharpening her senses. Something felt wrong—an unnatural stillness that made her skin crawl. She froze, her breathing slowing as her eyes scanned the space.

Two figures emerged from the shadows.

Brot and Noeth, members of the ship’s maintenance crew, stood armed with Dissolver sidearms. Their weapons were visible—and pointed directly at her.

“What are you doing here?” Nelve demanded, her voice low as her hand moved instinctively toward her KelKor Blade. She halted when Brot and Noeth motioned to their active weapons.

“Don’t move, Inquisitor,” Noeth said.

“Take your hand away,” Brot rasped, his voice harsher and urgent.

Brot activated the lights, flooding the room with harsh brightness.

“Step away from the door, Inquisitor,” Brot ordered.

“Do it,” he demanded, his voice dulling with hesitation.

Nelve moved as instructed, stepping to the far side of the room. Her focus shifted between them, marking angles and distances. Brot’s stiff stance held confidence, while Noeth’s grip showed doubt.

Brot moved and leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed, though the Dissolver in his hand remained pointed at her. His gaunt face was shadowed, his sharp features hardened by suspicion. Noeth, broader but more hesitant, shifted uneasily near the desk, his weapon still aimed.

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded, her voice rasping. “Lower your weapons and get out of my quarters, now.”

Brot raised the Dissolver, his bone-like fingers clenching the grip. "We need to talk, Inquisitor."

“Then talk, and get out,” Nelve snapped.

“About Routh,” Brot added.

Nelve’s stomach tightened, but her face betrayed nothing. It had been Brot and Noeth searching for Routh the day he was killed—the day she sacrificed him. The day her trial and initiation into the Brotherhood had begun.

She could clearly recall the day when she sacrificed him. It was not an act she took pride in—far from it. But it had been necessary; someone had to die by her hand, and he had been the most fitting choice.

“What about him?” she replied.

Noeth blurted out, “He went missing,” his voice rising. It was now common knowledge aboard the ship. “We know you had something to do with it. The last person to see him was you.”

“I have heard,” she replied coldly. “I am an Inquisitor. Let’s not forget.”

“Tell us what you know,” Brot demanded, his harsh tone rising.

“I know no more than you do,” she said.

“You were the last to see him,” Brot pressed.

“He fixed my fighter craft. I had not seen him after that,” she replied.

“We know that. We spoke with you, don’t you remember?” Brot snapped.

“I do,” Nelve said evenly.

“Just tell us what you know,” Noeth added.

“I’ve already told you,” Nelve replied, her voice rising slightly.

“You won’t escape our justice,” Brot growled.

“You know what will happen if this does not end now,” Nelve said, her voice rising more.

“We understand the consequences,” Noeth said, though his voice shook slightly.

“We know them,” Brot repeated, his tone firm. “But we can’t let the matter go—not for Routh. Maybe you don’t understand, but we served under him for years. Learned from him.”

“Then I understand your feelings,” Nelve replied. “Still, there is little I can do. Being the last to see him means nothing. I am growing tired of this; my patience has come to an end.”

Nelve began to seethe. “Leave now, and you just might live. Major Legate Malocktus will not forgive this course of action when I inform him.”

The restraint it took not to unsheathe her Kelkor Blade was wearing thin. Her elongated fingers hovered near the hilt. With two weapons trained on her, she knew a single misstep would cost her.

If only I were wearing my barrier field. A mistake I won’t make again.

If she had been shielded, she would have needed only seconds—seconds to end this. But her equipment remained in her locker.

She didn’t know Brot and Noeth well enough to predict their every move, but she could sense they were unsettled, ready to fight, ready to kill if it came to that. They wouldn’t have taken such actions if they weren’t ready to.

Then, a realization dawned on her: Caul had forbidden her from wearing a barrier field during her melee training. He didn’t want her to rely on it, ensuring she learned to adapt and survive without its protection.

Brot and Noeth exchanged a sharp look. Something about the comment she had made and the way Nelve looked at them caused concern. Doubt passed between them, as if each had come to their own realization, sensing something they could not say for certain—doubt.

“You think we’ve been misled, Brot?” Noeth asked. “I’m not so sure about this.”

Brot let out a long, hissing sigh. “Perhaps,” he said before turning his eyes back to Nelve. “We can’t back down now. It’s in motion.”

“We should talk this out more,” Noeth said, his voice hesitant. “You know he would do this. You know it.”

“Stop,” Brot snapped, his full focus on Noeth.

“But Brot, I think we should—” Noeth began.

“Noeth,” Brot interrupted, his tone sharp and final. The single word silenced Noeth, who hesitated before reluctantly backing down.

Brot refocused on Nelve, his weapon steady. “Unsheathe your KelKor Blade and throw it on the floor. Now.”

Nelve moved slowly, her eyes locked on Brot. She reached for her blade, unsheathed it, and tossed it. The weapon clanged loudly against the floor.

“I’ve told you already—I don’t know what happened to him,” she said.

“We don’t believe you,” Brot snapped. “Commodore Gahlenka says he likely fell into the incineration unit.”

Noeth’s voice dropped. “The incineration unit…”

“He’s not that clumsy,” Brot hissed. “We don’t believe it.”

“Brot,” Noeth interjected cautiously.

“We have to,” Brot insisted.

Brot lunged at Nelve, his rasping hiss filling the room, raw with frustration. Tossing aside his weapon, his hands reached for her shoulders, shoving her backward with force. Her back slammed into the locker as he grabbed her and slammed her into it repeatedly. Pain exploded through her skull as her head struck the metal, tearing a gash along its ridges. Blood trickled from the wound, warm against her cold skin.

Before she could react, he yanked her forward and slammed her to the ground.

The impact left her dazed, pain spreading through the back of her head. Brot was on her in an instant, pinning her down. Stunned, Nelve’s instincts flared. Her knee shot upward, connecting with his ribs, a sharp crack silencing his grunt as he staggered back, clutching his side.

She shoved him off, sending him stumbling to the side.

“Stop it!” Noeth shouted, his voice cracking as the situation spiraled out of control. He knew this wouldn’t end well—no matter the outcome. The Dissolver in his hands wavered as he struggled to keep his focus, considering firing it but holding back.

“He’s playing us for fools,” Noeth said. “We should talk more first, confirm what we suspect.”

“Stop talking, Noeth,” Brot snapped. “Routh deserved better.”

Still on the floor, Brot swung a fist at Nelve, striking her in the head. His closed hand slammed into her face.

Nelve was still stunned from the blow to her head as Brot pinned her down again. One hand clamped around her neck, his grip tightening. Her fingers scrambled behind her until they found the hilt of the Katarath Dagger.

In one motion, she drew the blade and drove it upward into Brot’s chest. The blade sank deep.

His breath hitched, his eyes wide with shock. Nelve activated the dagger, and Brot disintegrated before her. No trace of his existence remained—just the fragile echo of his final breath, fading like mist.

The room fell silent, save for Nelve’s ragged breathing.

Noeth stood frozen, locked in place for a moment. Then, with a burst of energy, he charged, picking up where Brot had left off.

The Katarath Dagger slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor as Nelve, still stunned from the blows to her head, fought to recover. Noeth’s sidearm fell from his hand, landing just out of reach.

Pinning her beneath him, Noeth bore down with his weight as she struggled to break free. He struck her face with brutal force, his fists pounding her skull repeatedly.

Nelve tried to fight back, but Noeth was strong. Her head swam, her focus slipping with every blow. His hands clamped around her throat. Nelve clawed at his arms, her nails digging into his skin as her vision blurred. She choked, her body arching as she fought desperately to escape.

Anger burned through Noeth, his grip refusing to loosen.

Her fingers scraped against the floor, desperate to find the blade. Finally, they closed around the hilt of the Katarath Dagger.

With a final surge of strength, Nelve twisted her body, swinging her arm upward and driving the blade into Noeth’s side.

He let out a choked gasp, his grip loosening as the strength drained from his body. Blood spilled over her hands as Noeth slumped forward. For a heartbeat, his pleading eyes met hers, searching for something unspoken. Then, they dulled, the spark of life fading away. His weight pressed against her briefly before collapsing to the side, lifeless.

Nelve activated the dagger still embedded in him. Noeth disintegrated, his body vanishing in a pulse of energy, leaving only the blood smeared across her hands and the floor.

She lay on the floor, gasping for air, her throat raw and aching, her head pounding. Her vision remained fuzzy as her gaze drifted to the two sidearms left behind.

Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, her body trembling.

The air reeked of blood, sharp and metallic, thick and suffocating. For a moment, all was still—save for the pounding of her heart. Nelve’s hand tightened around the Katarath Dagger, its hilt warm and slick with blood.

Her breaths came faster now, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

Her hold on the dagger almost faltered, the slick blood making it hard to maintain her grip. For a moment, she considered letting it fall, as if surrendering the blade might somehow free her from the burden it carried. But her fingers tightened instead, anchoring her to the only truth she could grasp: survival.

The pressure of the hilt brought her focus back. The thought settled. I’ve survived another trial.